


Moving Forms of Meditation

by bouncymouse



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncymouse/pseuds/bouncymouse
Summary: Sparring was a rush no matter the opponent.
Relationships: Elena/Tseng (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	Moving Forms of Meditation

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Elena Chat Noir, in exchange for [this](https://twitter.com/ElenaChatNoir/status/1359976085463646212) super soft, super sweet ReTi sketch she drew (which I freaking LOVE) <3
> 
> TsElena, my _other_ OTP. Sometimes, when I write, things escalate quickly... This was one of those times. Based on Elena's TsElena sparring series, which you can find on her Twitter (links at the end of the fic).

It started like it always did.

Sparring was a rush no matter the opponent. Sure, punching bags were a suitable target on the days she needed a release... when pent-up frustrations got the better of her and fists and feet against leather was the only thing that helped. Other days, there was calm she found on the shooting range, where precision wheedled out the chaos and forced a stillness she seldom found anywhere else.

Sparring was different. Sparring was a sport, a _competition_ , and competing was where Elena excelled.

With Reno, it was fast. Messy. She left with bruises and flushed cheeks, ribs aching from elbow jabs and knees and laughter. They goaded each other, throwing banter back and forth, and he loved playing the game. It wasn’t about technique or skill; it was about showing off. He was fast, but she was determined. He never _let_ her win, but she almost always did.

Rude was calmer, more about perfecting his skills than being flashy. They learned from each other, corrected stances, and tried out new moves. He let her take advantage of his weight and height and she practised breaking holds until she could take him down with minimal effort and maximum effect. Afterwards, they stretched, and the loser paid for coffee.

Tseng was a different creature entirely.

They circled each other. She grounded herself in the feel of the mats beneath her bare feet, the sound of her heartbeat unnecessarily loud in the silence of the employee gym. Almost eight on Friday night. She’d bet they were the last ones left.

He struck with his left hand. She dodged easily, reading the signs before he moved. The subtle dip of his shoulder, the tension rippling through his frame.

She grinned. “You’ll have to be quicker than that, sir.”

Sparring was Tseng’s idea. It usually was. She obliged him, even though seeing him like this tested her resolve to the breaking point, Shinra-issue sweats hanging low on his hips, the contours of his bare chest ending up slick with sweat. They’d grapple on the mats, pin each other down, and he’d give her a _look_ that made her toes curl.

They never crossed the line, though. They couldn’t. There was an unwritten rule they obeyed, even though their matches left her wound up so tightly she could barely breathe. Instead, she’d shake his hand and smile. Retreat to the ladies’ locker room to shower. Slip her hands between her thighs and seek out the release she craved.

It was never enough, but when he challenged her, she never refused.

“You’re learning.”

“You drop your shoulder,” she offered. A touch insubordinate, but she couldn’t keep the smirk off her face. “At first I thought I imagined it, but you do it every time.”

“I see. I commend you on your observational skills.”

“Thank you.”

She threw a jab at his ribs, testing the waters. He deflected it with his forearm and twisted away. Her foot connected with his thigh, harder than she intended. He grunted, retaliating with a kick of his own that she only just ducked.

He struck again, faster than she expected. She rolled her shoulder, eyeing up the red mark he left.

“You used to pull your punches,” she said, tone wry. 

“You’re not a rookie anymore.”

On it went. His movements were precise, measured. _Intentional._ She relied on instinct and a little less finesse, jabbing elbows into the openings he left, throwing punches and kicks at every weak spot she could see. She might’ve learned her trade at the academy, but she’d honed it on the job. There weren’t any rules in Midgar, just winners and losers.

She didn’t like to lose.

It wasn’t long before she lost herself in the dance. Sweat prickled her skin, beading at her temples, sliding down her chest. Tseng was tiring too now. She could see it in the steady rise and fall of his chest, colour in his face and fire in his eyes. Adrenaline only riled her up further. She knew she was reaching her limit, that the fine line between morbid curiosity and torturing herself was rapidly blurring. 

His knee connected with her ribs and she gasped, winded.

He dropped his guard. “Are you okay?”

She swept his legs out from under him and they crashed onto the mat.

He was taller. Broader. They struggled, and he came out on top, pinning her down. His fingers were tight on her wrists, the weight of his hips solid across her middle.

"Taking advantage of my concern?" There was humour in his voice. "You're spending too much time with Reno."

"And where does _he_ get it from?"

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. Strands of hair fell loose from the bun he'd twisted them into, and she longed to curl her fingers through them, to drag his mouth to hers.

It was definitely time to call it a night. The ache was overwhelming.

“It's late,” she said, hating herself for walking away. “Call it a draw?” 

“A draw? I won.”

He was baiting her. She shouldn't rise to it. He didn’t know how hard he made it for her, didn’t understand. She should end the game now with her dignity intact.

He _didn’t_ win, though. 

"Are you sure?" she challenged.

“I’m sure."

She could smell him, sweat and the woodsy scent of his cologne calling to her, demanding she forget who she was, who _he_ was and just give in to the need that burned through her. His fingers loosened on her wrists and she saw her opening.

She threw her body against him. Caught him off guard and unbalanced him with her knees. They rolled again, and he almost had her, using his weight to pin her again. She writhed beneath him, got her hand free and curled her fingers into the hair at his nape. Wrenched his head back and got her leg over his hips. Slammed him back into the mat.

He was panting, lips parted, his eyes drilling into her. When she shifted her position to strengthen her hold on him, reason scattered to the wind. He was hard. She could feel him through the cotton of her sweatpants, and if she angled her hips _just so_ —

The breathless sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her eyes widened.

“Sorry, I—”

He kissed her. Restraint snapped, and she released his wrists, fisted her hands in his hair and kissed him back. He was oxygen, and she was drowning, the fingers that dug into her neck bordering on painful. She didn't care. Her body _ached_ for him.

She was on her feet a moment later, much _too_ late, stumbling backwards and trying to readjust her clothes, her hair, her composure. Judging by the chagrinned expression on his face, she was failing miserably.

“I shouldn’t… I’m sorry…” Sentences wouldn’t happen. She gave up. “I… Goodnight, sir.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. She fled.

* * *

She should’ve gone home. She didn’t. Pride wouldn’t let her abandon her routine.

Instead, she peeled off her clothing, one sweat-soaked garment at a time, and folded them neatly with shaking hands, leaving them on the bench next to her locker. Grabbed her towel and her toiletries and headed for the showers.

She caught her reflection in the mirror as she passed, cheeks crimson and her hair dishevelled. There was already a bruise forming on her throat that she almost certainly wouldn’t be able to explain away when the guys asked. How could she be so reckless? So _stupid?_

Except she wasn’t. He kissed her, and the feel of him pressed against the apex of her thighs wasn’t something she imagined. He _wanted_ her.

She didn’t know how she dragged herself off him. She stepped under the shower and let the scalding water wash thoughts of his mouth away.

Except it _didn’t._

She slicked shower gel in her palms. Skimmed them along limbs that shook from exertion and desire and let her mind wander. There was no point trying to stop it. She could still smell him, still taste the salt on his lips and the heat of him.

The longer she stayed in here, the less chance there was of an awkward encounter when she left. She took her time, breathing in the sharp scents of mint and tea tree oil in the air, the icy tingle of the suds. And as her heartbeat slowed and her muscles softened, she palmed her breasts, kneading and pinching, picturing the rough heat of his mouth on her skin.

A tiny part of her recoiled. Was she really so desperate? But her body craved release, and she chased it. Slipped a sudsy hand between her legs and rolled her clit between her fingers.

She closed her eyes. Focused on the steady beat of the water against her skin and the shivers that radiated out from her fingers. Knees weak, body trembling and—

“Elena...”

Her heart caught in her throat.

“Can we talk about this?”

She opened her eyes. A shadow across the doorway, but he kept his distance, at least. For an excruciating second, she wondered if he’d _seen._

“This really isn’t a great time,” she stammered.

_ “Elena.” _

“Tseng… sir… I’m…” She sighed. Closed her eyes again. “I’m trying to shower.”

“If you want me to leave, I will.”

_Damn that man._ She hesitated. “Stay.”

She fancied she heard the dull thud of his shoulder blades hit the wall. Pictured him leaning back, arms folded. The tapered lines of his hips beneath the sweatpants.

Cut off before completion, her core clenched. Ignoring it, she sighed, reaching for her shampoo.  Squirted too large a handful in her frustration and lathered it through her hair.

“Flowers?”

Her fingers stilled. “It’s shampoo.”

“I see.”

“I’m washing my hair.”

Silence. It ticked on, like the water pitter-pattering against the tiles.

“How does it feel?” he asked, eventually.

Did she imagine the rasp in his voice? As awkward small-talk went, he deserved a prize. Because surely that’s all it was.

Small-talk.

She swallowed hard. “It… feels nice.”

“Go on.”

“Uh… soft.”

“Tell me how _you_ feel.”

There was no mistaking the inflection. Her skin burned. For a moment, she contemplated lying. 

“I feel…” She stalled. Toed the line in the sand. Threw caution to the wind and prayed to any deity that listened that she wasn’t reading too much into this. “Actually, sir, I feel frustrated.”

“Oh?” There was that humour again. She could picture the quirk of his lip. “Why?”

_You know why, you bastard._ The words caught at first. She cleared her throat. Trailed her fingers along the bruise that marked her skin. “Because you disturbed me.”

When his reply didn’t come, she continued, her voice wavering. “I was thinking about you… about kissing you.”

There. She couldn’t be any clearer. If this was all some kind of horrible misunderstanding… well… she’d just never be able to look him in the eye again. No big deal.

“I think about that every night.” He carefully controlled his words. His voice was quiet. Contemplative. “I think about how you’d feel.”

Not a misunderstanding, then. Her knees were weak. Her hands trailed lower, fingers tugging gently at her nipples. She sighed.

_ “Elena…” _

“I’m thinking about your mouth.” She felt the dull throbbing low in her belly. Pressed her thighs together impatiently.

“What am I doing?”

_ Oh, no… _

She’d done this before. She just hadn’t done it at work, or with the man she thought about when she stumbled into her apartment with people she didn’t care to remember, hoping to scratch the itch that plagued her.

The stakes were too high. Adrenaline made her giddy and for a minute she was back on the mats, grinding herself against him and—

“You’re kissing my neck,” she said, struggling for something more refined and failing. “And… uh… my nipples...”

A pause. “Are they hard?”

“Yeah.” She pinched them a little harder. Bit back a moan. “Your teeth are sharp.”

“Do you like that?”

“Yeah…” Her hands slipped lower. Skimmed her stomach. Brushed against the curls at the top of her thighs. “It makes me feel alive.”

She imagined him stroking himself. The band of colour across his cheeks, his head tipped back against the wall and his throat exposed.

“And then what shall I do?”

“Touch me.” It sounded like a plea, and maybe it was.

He chuckled. “Straight to the point.”

Her nerves were electric. Her fingers slipped across her clit again, and this time she didn’t hide her breathy cry. “I’m so wet already. Fuck messing around.”

She pressed a little harder than she would usually, trying to force herself to the crescendo she’d already been so close to moments before. The wave was building, _rising_ , but the peak remained unreachable, just out of her grasp.

“Are you close?” His voice was low, almost a growl. Her core tightened greedily.

“I can’t…” she panted. “It’s just…”

“Turn around. Don’t stop.”

“Why—”

_ “Turn around.” _

She did, pressing her forehead to the cool tiles and letting the warm water surge along her neck. Her fingers carried on, the pressure still building, not quite able to tip herself over the edge and—

She cried out, the sound raw and unfamiliar. His mouth was warm against her throat, his body hard. When his hands cupped her breasts, she arched into him. Ground herself against the erection she could feel pressed against the small of her back and reached for him blindly.

“Did I tell you to stop?” He sank his teeth into her shoulder and she whimpered urgently. “I want you to come for me.”

He twisted a nipple. The pain was sharp, unexpected. It travelled straight between her legs. She resumed the circles on her clit, rubbing a little harder, needing to reach that peak.

“Tseng, _please.”_

He laughed—actually _laughed_ —and slid his hands along her torso, fingers trailing lightly across her stomach. One hand fell away. She felt the tip of his cock against her thighs and then his fingertips dug into her hips, dragged her closer.

He slipped between her legs, hard and thick against her sensitive folds and she keened, denied the fulfilment she really needed.

“My, my… you _are_ wet.” His voice was husky in her ear, his hips striking up a torturous rhythm.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Playing with me.” Her voice was petulant.

“Not playing.” He caught her earlobe in his teeth. _“Winning.”_

“Bastard.”

He kissed her throat again. “Perhaps.”

This wasn’t fair. She _loathed_ him, but she didn’t. Far from it, actually.

He grasped her shoulders and turned her gently. Caught her chin in his hand when she refused to meet his eye.

“Do I win?” he asked, eyes shining.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

He kissed her, his mouth sweet and gentle, and she forgot she was wound up so tightly she could scream, that he _pushed_ her to this point. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, slipped her tongue past his teeth and angled her jaw a little further.

After a little while, he pulled back. She drank him in with her eyes, his skin wet and taut, his cock standing proudly to attention, his dark hair falling freely around his shoulders. And fuck, he was beautiful. Her heart ached and her body longed for him and before she could do anything about either of those things he’d dropped to his knees in front of her, pressed his mouth to her thighs and—

_ Oh... _

Her fingers tightened in his hair. His tongue was determined, his lips gentle around her swollen clit, and the wave she’d been riding surged ever higher.

“Ah _fuck_ … Tseng… I can’t… I…”

He stroked his fingers along her. Pushed one inside her, then another. Found a tempo that turned her bones to water and still, his mouth and tongue worked at her, her flesh heavy and oversensitive and it was right _there._ That shining, mind-blowing feeling. If he could just—

He sucked harder. Snagged a spot inside her with his fingertips and the walls came crashing down.

“Oh, fuck… _Tseng…_ ” She writhed against him, wrenching at his hair. _“Fuck!_ I’m coming…”

She could feel him laughing, his mouth and lips and fingers riding out the wave with her, and she couldn’t take it. Far too sensitive, far too much. She sagged against him, his hands running along the back of her thighs, squeezing her calves. Sated, she loosed her fingers from his hair. Stroked his cheek.

He lifted her easily, arms hooked below her knees. Slammed her back into the slick tiles and buried himself inside her. She clenched around him, muscles still rippling from her own orgasm, curled her fingers through his hair and dug her nails into his scalp.

He set a punishing rhythm from the off, frantic, _desperate_ , and she realised giddily that he wanted this just as much as she did. The friction sent her spiralling again, the tiles icy at her back, the water hot, his skin smooth and hard and she was helpless, boneless, unable to breathe, to speak, to _think…_

She came again as he fucked her, spasming around his cock, incoherently crying his name. He followed shortly after, pulled out as he set her on her feet, pumping his fist furiously as he spilled his release against her stomach, hot and wet and deliciously _dirty._

Unsure what to say, she sank back against the tiles. Pressed her palms against the cold surface and waited.

He grinned. “So, you think about me?”

Her face burned. She couldn’t suppress her smile, though. His eyes crinkled around the edges. So human, so _warm._

“Every fucking time,” she replied, trailing her fingers along his hip.

_ “Good.” _

It started how it always did. This time, it didn’t end.

**Author's Note:**

> TsElena sparring...  
> [Part 1](https://twitter.com/ElenaChatNoir/status/1355279769886195713)  
> [Part 2](https://twitter.com/ElenaChatNoir/status/1355631665553567744)  
> [Part 3](https://twitter.com/ElenaChatNoir/status/1356726474762579969)  
> [Part 4](https://twitter.com/ElenaChatNoir/status/1357425937344847875)  
> and the super hot (and NSFW) [Part 5](https://twitter.com/EChatnoir/status/1357829829165514754)


End file.
